


Aspashtam Anuktam

by CarminaVulcana



Series: Broken Unbroken [6]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Realizations, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 02:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Amarendra's perspective on the night during which 'Kalushit Prem' is set. Bhalla's uncharacteristic behavior rattles him. But he doesn't know if his instincts have taken over or if he is just bitter about everything that has happened to him. Set in the Silences and Insanities universe.





	Aspashtam Anuktam

Has the night gotten colder? It sure feels like it. For the sixth time in an hour (perhaps two, I am not sure), I contemplate wrapping that shawl around myself.

But it is still wet. And it stinks of bodily fluids I’d rather not think about.

That shawl is a painful reminder of yesterday.

And the weather is not helping.

I could try and reach for the blanket under my backside. It would provide a measure of comfort. But then the rough earth would dig into the older wounds. I shift experimentally to try and gauge how much I have healed.

Bad idea.

The raw cuts on the backs of my thighs protest angrily at the movement.

The blanket will stay where it is.

My dirty shawl will have to do.

I extend my left arm towards it, but a gust of wind blows the stench right into my nostrils. My fingers pause midair. Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it back. The cage is already too dirty. I cannot soil it further.

It seems tonight I will just have to bear the cold. At least it is not raining.

I lean back against the wall and pray that this night would go by quickly.

The complete quiet is undisturbed by human activity. I know the guards are nearby. They always are. But the unintelligible hum of their conversation is nowhere to be heard. Somewhere though, a cricket is chirping. That sound feels good, natural… the way nights are supposed to be.

I close my eyes. I should try and sleep too.

But just then, my belly lets out a loud growl.

I want to laugh. It is almost as if my stomach is angry with me for wanting to go to sleep despite not giving it anything.

Foolish stomach! Hasn’t it learned in all these years, that we don’t get fed every night? That growling and complaining does not get us anywhere? And that sleep is our only release, our last escape from the hunger?

Another gust of wind.

My teeth chatter this time. I am so cold. My very bones feel frozen. And yet, there is nothing to do.

My knees hurt as I draw them close to my torso but at least the pain will die down to a dull throb eventually. The biting cold will not. I curl up into a tight little ball and pray yet again for this night to go by quickly.

Whatever tomorrow will bring can be no worse than this chill that seems to have settled in the pores of my flesh for good.

I try to think about something other than the cold. But unfortunately, the only thoughts I have are too difficult to revisit. Maybe I should try one of those old grounding techniques that were taught to me as a boy.

Guru Pramodananda always said to focus on the ambient sounds around to re-anchor ourselves to the present. As I have discovered over the last several years, it also works when one is too uncomfortable to find rest, hence it is what I must do.

I try to find the chirping of the cricket again. It takes me a moment, but the reassuring hum is there. I can hear a dog barking in the distance. There is also water dripping nearby.

And then, footsteps. They are too close.

I open my eyes. No. Not again. Not so soon.

I want to scream. I am too tired of this. Of Bhallaladeva’s sick games. I can’t take much more of this.

And yet, I know as well as he does that, he calls the shots. If he wants me tonight, he will have me.

I steal a surreptitious glance at his feet. A painful twinge in my side reminds me of the previous day’s punishment. I swallow inaudibly at the thought of being kicked with those steel-toed shoes again. But really, what can I do?

_“Endure, my love…” _That’s all she says to me anymore. There is no love between us now. Most people around me are convinced that she is dead. I, however, want to believe that she lives. Of course, if the Gods are kind, I will never find out.

Why does she tell me to endure? For what? Why do I not have the luxury to escape this misery?

But, my misplaced anger at my long-lost wife will not help me. She is right. I must endure. For all those people. For her memory. For mother’s sacrifice. For our child, wherever he is. For my crimes against them all.

For the simple mistake of being born.

I must endure. I must atone.

Funny how Bhalla and I are on the same page here. Except, he relishes my suffering. I, like a coward, can’t wait for it to end.

I tense my muscles and think about the black curtain.

That curtain is my impenetrable wall. Behind it, I am safe. Bhallaladeva’s weapons cannot breach it. Katappa’s words cannot melt it. Even the physician’s expert touch cannot find it. I am very proud of it. In my emptiness, in my nothingness, I still have something. And no one even knows I have it.

If anyone knew of these thoughts, they would surely think I have gone mad. And perhaps, I have. However, there is a calming quality about madness. It blunts the senses. The sting of the whip does not feel as sharp as it did in the beginning. The cramps that gnawed at my belly earlier are much easier to ignore now. And my throat is still painful, but it doesn’t matter when I have no use for it anymore.

I take my chances and glance at him from the corner of my right eye.

He chooses that very moment to took at me.

“Baahu,” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I want to talk to you.”

Ah! His cruelty truly knows no bounds. The intonation of his words makes it seem like he is asking for my permission. Only, I know better. He is the king. I am a non-human. I am his to do with as he pleases. I am his to break, tear, torture, or kill.

But his majesty wants my permission to talk to him. What an asshole!

“T… then talk.” I wish my voice were stronger. But alas, between the harshness of yesterday’s questioning and the changing season of Mahishmati, there is precious little I can do to control the wheezing whistle that tapers every sound I make.

“Not here. I want to talk to you in private. Let me open your cage.”

I see. Indeed, this is another new game. Something to entertain him. I marvel at the rot that is this man’s mind. Hasn’t he done enough? Hasn’t he destroyed enough lives? Enough minds? Why this pretense?

I laugh. It feels good to laugh after so long. The lord knows I could use more of it.

“You can do whatever you please.” It seems weird to state a fact that he knows already. But I say it anyway. I want him to know that I see right through him. He cannot trick me. Not again. Never again.

“You must be hungry?”

I am not sure I heard that right. Since when does he care that I am hungry? Moreover, he is the reason why I am hungry. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I seal my lips shut. One wrong comment and I would be forced to spend the night nursing another set of wounds from the leather whip.

I lower my gaze and see the plate of food in his hands.

I fight to keep my expression neutral. I will not let him see what he has reduced me to. I will not let him see my longing. I will not.

Thankfully, it isn’t a full moon night.

Wordlessly, he opens my cage to let me out.

The overpowering desire to make a run for it is powerful as always. But neither my heart nor my mind are in agreement with my instinct. My mind knows that in this condition, I can’t even cross the gate of the palace, let alone the capitol and the countryside beyond it. My heart refuses to entertain the idea because of the useless sense of honor it still holds dear for some godforsaken reason.

The short chains on my arms and legs don’t allow me to stretch my limbs even a little. Consequently, it is impossible for me to hold onto the wall for support. I need to be careful of each step to prevent myself from falling. But again, there is only a limited amount of caution I can take. These leg irons drag my feet back and cut against my ankles. Walking is an exercise in enduring pain. There you go, Devasena. I am enduring. Just as you told me to. Now will you come back to me? To reward me for this? Wait, don’t answer that.

I know your answer. You would return in a heartbeat.

That is enough for me.

You don’t actually have to come back. You shouldn’t. This place is not the home I once knew. This isn’t your marital home either. This is hell. You deserve better. I once thought I did too. Not anymore, though. Not anymore.

The effort of walking out of the cage has left me breathless and shaking. I don’t want to show him how weak I am tonight. But my body betrays me. I can’t stop the coughing fit that catches in my throat and makes my eyes water.

Such shame I have never known.

No, scratch that.

I know this shame every morning when I hurry to do my business in the cover of fleeting darkness before anyone wakes up. I know this shame every night as I rest my bare skin on the rough, sullied dirt of my cage. I know this shame every other hour when it is on the tip of my tongue to beg for mercy that will never be given.

Shame. It is etched in every part of me that has been exposed not only to the unforgiving elements but also the accusing, pitying, prying eyes of the palace staff and the soldiers. They have seen me at my most vulnerable. They have seen me in ways that only an infant should be seen by its caregivers.

Shame. It is an old friend. Also, my newest enemy. But the cold is fast catching up with it to take that spot.

“Follow me,” Bhallaladeva orders me. Like a common performing monkey, I follow my ‘master’ to his next entertainment. I am not foolish enough to hope for something better.

And wasn’t I right? Barely 15 steps later, we stop outside the interrogation room.

I knew it.

So, what will it be today? The cuts on my back, hips, and upper thighs scream at what they know is surely coming to them. Do I scream my protest? My anger? My grief at the unfairness of it all?

My feet linger just outside the doorway for a moment. I wish there was a way to prevent this from happening tonight. But it is a fanciful thought and I know it.

I can deal with anything he throws at me. I am Baahubali. Even if no one knows it anymore. I am still Baahubali. And I will stay strong through whatever he wants tonight. At some point, he will tire too. And then, I will be left alone to lick my wounds in peace, to sleep, and to assure Her that I am still here, still alive… still enduring.

“Sit.”

“What for?” I want to ask him but decide not to.

It is best to get this over with. Even though my knees hurt because of what was done to them three days ago, I force myself to bend and assume the cross-legged position he wants me in.

Now what?

“Does it hurt a lot?”

Bastard! What kind of a question is that? I want to punch him.

“No,” I lie.

Wordlessly, he pushes the plate towards me. “Here. Eat.”

Again, I struggle to decipher this change in his demeanor. What is he up to? He should just leave me alone with my hunger and my cramps. I can’t deal with a cat-and-mouse chase tonight.

“Have you eaten?” I dare to ask him. If this is indeed some new game, I need to know what he will use to hook me this time “I… I mean no.. no offense.”

I maintain my poker face as I wait for his response. The delectable aroma of the food fills my nose.

“I haven’t,” He responds to my question. “But I am not hungry. I want you to eat.”

I want to believe him. I am so hungry that I could finish this whole plate of food in minutes. But how do I know he is not lying.

“I know what you are thinking,” he says, as if reading my mind. ““Your fears are unfounded. This food is freely given. It is yours to eat.”

I sigh inwardly and look down at the plate. Rice and lentils. Simple food. Food that humans eat. Food that I once ate often with my wife, especially during those last few days when money was scarce.

I have wondered countless times over the last few years about my last meal with Devasena. Her labor pains had kicked in just after dinner. We had had lentils with rice that day. I had stirred in too much ginger. But she had devoured the meal without complaint.

I wish I had done at better job that day. I wish my last gift to her could have been something festive, something memorable. I wish I had made payasam.

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride them. Of course, I still wouldn’t-- which reminds me to reassert my humility before him. "I cannot eat, my king. It is improper for the likes of myself to eat if the sovereign has not eaten yet.”

My face is red as I say these words. But I had to. I have been punished too harshly for much smaller infractions in the past. I am not human in his eyes anymore. But I am still not stupid. Self-preservation is still paramount for me.

I am simply trying to stay alive in the hopes that some day I would live.

“Today is an exception,” his voice is cold and informal. Something about him is different tonight but I cannot place my finger on it. “Besides, you are obligated to do everything I demand of you. Eat.”

Ah, there. He is still the same man, alright. What he cannot get with words, he will acquire with his sword—or in my case, his switch.

I try to gather a small bit of the food in my hand. It is awkward and difficult. The rice keeps slipping from between my fingers. I have no real grip without my thumb. 10 years ago, this would have reduced me to tears of humiliation. But no longer. It takes me a few minutes to figure out another way. And finally, I do manage to get a small bite into my mouth.

Unwittingly, my gaze meets his.

I do not like what I see.

All these years, I have only wondered about the possibility. But I have never pondered upon it. It is too horrible to even contemplate. Did he… was it me he wanted all this time? No. He had always lusted after the crown. Everything else had just been a means to get to it. But the warning bells continue to ring in my head.

Right now, the way he is staring at me… I want to jerk away, run, save myself from whatever monster is coaxing him to go ahead and do his worst.

No.

No.

No.

I cannot.

I cannot deal with this.

I force myself to look away and take deep breaths. My pulse is racing. I need a moment. I…

“My daughter was born dead.”

I look up.

The madness in his eyes is gone. Perhaps, I had only imagined it.

I take in his words.

I do not wish to feel sorry for him. He does not deserve it.

And yet, for the first time in over a decade, my heart goes out to him. I hate myself for it. I feel betrayed by my anger.

But I feel his grief. And it gives me no joy.

“I am sorry for your loss."

“Are you? You must be happy.”

Of course, he doesn’t believe me. After all, it is not his nature to feel compassion for another’s loss. He who was happy to murder my newborn son cannot understand how I can feel his pain.

How little he understands me! It is true then; blood is indeed thicker than water. We were never brothers. We were never even friendly strangers. But that is a thought for another time.

“Never,” I counter his assumption. “The death of a child does not please me. I truly am sorry for your loss.”

“Not even when it hurts me so much? I know how much you want me to suffer.”

I shake my head at his conclusions. Obviously, I don’t expect him to believe me, no matter what I say. But still, I am compelled to explain myself. Why? I do not know.

“No, Bhalla. I don’t want to see you suffer. I don’t know what you will do to me for saying this, but I see no reason to lie. I don’t love you anymore. It is hard to love someone who has destroyed everything I ever held dear and sacred; including my newborn son who I didn’t even get to see. I know how sharp the hurt is—like a gaping wound that can never close no matter how many times you try to suture it together. But despite everything that has happened to me, I don’t wish it upon anyone, not even you.”

I can’t speak more. I thought I had dealt with this. Why then, is the pain so fresh… I hear my wife’s pained grunts as the midwives encourage her to push. I hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. It feels just like yesterday that everything fell apart.

But it also feels like a bad nightmare that only ever took place in my mind. Amarendra Baahubali, Devasena, and their child lived in a world that I can never visit or see again. A world of broken dreams. That is why, I can only have the nightmares. That is all I am good for.

“Finish your food,” Bhallaladeva’s voice cuts through the fog and pulls me back to the present.

“I cannot, my lord,” I say.

My appetite has effectively died and even though a sensible part of me knows I should eat more, I simply cannot bring myself to put another morsel of food in my mouth. “I am unaccustomed to eating so much.” There, a believable lie. The second lie of the evening.

“Then have some water. “

I am not sure I should accept the tumbler. I am certainly thirsty. Very thirsty.

But I know better than to accept things offered by the king.

I remember what he did to me two years ago. I can never forgive him for that.

He seems to know what I am thinking, and he answers my unasked question. “There is no crushed glass in it this time.”

Do I believe him? I struggle to recall the details from two years ago. My memory of that day is hazy. But I believe the reason given to me for that particular punishment was my so-called lack of humility.

How do I know it isn’t the same story this time? I have no desire to spend the next three days writhing in my cage, praying for death while bearing the cruel, disgusted looks of people who once looked up to me as one of their own.

It is better to beg in private. It is a luxury I seldom get.

I prostrate before Bhallaladeva to let him know that if he indeed wanted to break me, he has succeeded. “Please, my King. Anything but that. Anything but that.”

I fully expect him to gloat. It’s what he usually does. It makes me sick but I hope he will spare me today, that my display of submission will compel him to let me be tonight.

“I just lost my child,” he whispers and backs away. ““I have seen enough for a night. I promise there is nothing in that tumbler but water.”

I look at his face. His eyes are haunted. I feel ashamed of myself. Why did I have to do that to him? He is capable of monstrous behavior at the best of times. When did I become the same way? He stopped seeing my humanity when he pushed me into the cage. When did I stop seeing his?

He sees only evil, darkness, and pathos in me? Do I not see those same things in him?

I pick up the tumbler and drink.

He was telling the truth. The water is clean and fresh. It feels like a touch of heaven going down my throat.

“Better?” he asks me.

I can only nod in response. I am too grateful to say anything else, even though somewhere the absurdity of this situation is not lost on me.

“I must return you to the cage now.”

I know that. I stand up and follow him back.

I keep my head bowed as we pass the night guards. They are probably surprised to see me walk out unharmed.

“Thank you,” the words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

“Pray for the souls of my dead children,” is his only response.

He locks the cage and retreats to the palace. I am still cold but not as much as before. I bow my head and utter a long-forgotten prayer that I used to say for soldiers killed in battle. Bhalla’s children were not soldiers. But even casualties of war deserve the same regard and honor as the combatants. They are the innocents lost in the cost of blood. And who can understand that better than me.

_“… Grant them succor, O Mother of Mothers. Grant them succor. Om Shantih. Om Shantih. Om Shantih.” _

I do not know if there is indeed someone up there listening to me. All these years, it seems that no one has.

But if there is someone out there silently acknowledging my pleas, then I also pray for the continued wellbeing of my wife and child. There is no one here who gives me the answer I know to be true in my heart. And there is no one here with whom I can share my fear that I could be wrong.

You, the unknown, the all-pervading, the all-powerful, you are my only refuge. And I have the right to know you so. My non-humanness may have made me unfit to enter a temple. But the fact that I still breathe, is testimony to your continued grace upon me. You are the sustainer. And you sustain me.

Sustain them too.

*****

He looks nothing like himself. I want to feel something; anything. But the sight of his cold, bloodied corpse stirs nothing within me. Not even relief.

This is the last time I will see him.

I have nothing for him.

Nothing but this shawl. Even in its tattered, blood-stained raggedness, it gave me comfort on that night when I could offer him none.

Now it is washed and mended. This is all I have for him. Maybe it will shield him from the heat of the pyre just as it shielded me from the cold. Maybe, it will also give him closure.

I cover his lifeless form with it and stand back.

This is the last of whatever lingered between us unsaid, unvoiced. Answers and apologies will come in another lifetime.


End file.
